Ten minutes later, Nila walked down the long, drafty corridor that led to the western granary wing. The air down here was thick with the scent of dry husks, threshed barley, and old burlap. The only light came from the narrow slit windows set high in the granite masonry, throwing thin, pale beams of morning sun across the dusty floorboards.

She kept her hands tucked into the deep pockets of her dark fox-fur cloak, her thumb resting flat against the smooth horn pommel of her hunting knife. Her boots made a loud, intentional clicking sound against the wood, ensuring Jaran would hear her approach long before she reached his door....